


Asking Out

by orphan_account



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Consensual Sex, First Date, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Misunderstandings, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-07-25 16:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7540105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark asks Bruce out. Several times. The thing is, after a while, he stops actually expecting Bruce to say yes. Until, one day, he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Time

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea laying around for months and I'm finally committed to writing it. This is chapter one of I'm not sure how many. Let me know if you notice any spelling or grammar mistakes, though I've actually edited this pretty thoroughly for once in my life.

The first time Clark asked Bruce out was still relatively early in their relationship. They’d only recently learned each other’s secret identities, which had seemed to Clark like a major turning point, though Bruce insisted on acting like nothing had changed. But Clark knew better. The issue of identity always felt like an enormous barrier between the two of them; between Clark and any other member of the Justice League, really, but he’d known Batman the longest, and with him the issue was therefore most noticeable. For a long time, Clark felt like he would never truly know the man behind the mask. But now, with that particular secret out of the way, Clark felt like his chances of actually developing a genuine friendship with the Batman seemed exponentially higher.

But, as Clark soon realized, there was no way for any sort of “getting to know each other” to actually happen on the job. Bruce refused to use their real names or make any reference to their civilian identities even when it was just the two of them on a rooftop in Gotham, let alone in the Watchtower, surrounded by surveillance cameras and League members who only knew them as Batman and Superman. So, Clark figured, they’d have to spend time together outside of saving the world. It was the only way their relationship, which was currently strictly professional, would ever progress.

Admittedly, Clark’s reasons for wanting to form a friendship with Bruce were mostly selfish. He had plenty of friends; Superman and Clark Kent were both generally well-liked people. He had his colleagues at the _Daily Planet_ , Lois especially, and he had the other League members. But Bruce was the only League member who knew who Clark was, who he really was, which meant Bruce was the only one Clark felt he could really open up to, if only Bruce were less hostile. Lois also knew Clark was Superman, and her friendship was invaluable to Clark, but she would never fully understand what it was like, the immense responsibility, the fear of failure that came with regularly saving the world. Bruce would understand this, Clark had no doubt.

There was also a secondary reason for Clark’s interest in Bruce, one Clark tried not to acknowledge, even to himself. Clark had always felt intrigued by the Batman, ever since the beginning, even before he counted Bruce a friend, back when he wasn’t sure Bruce’s vigilantism was in Gotham’s or the world’s best interest. And the more Clark got to know Batman, even before learning his secret identity, the more intrigued Clark became. “Intrigued” in the sense that, in his everyday life, Clark found himself thinking about Batman constantly, bringing him up in daily conversations whenever he could to the point where Lois began to laugh at him and his “bat-crush.” “Intrigued” in the sense that Clark, if he was being honest with himself, just might have been a _tiny_ bit attracted to the broad, rugged Gothamite. And learning Batman’s identity – learning he was, in fact, the incredibly handsome Bruce Wayne – had certainly not helped Clark on that front.

Attraction aside – because Clark didn’t even think he wanted to pursue a relationship with another League member, and he was certain Bruce would agree even on the slim chance the feeling did turn out to be mutual – Clark was certain spending more time together was something that would benefit them both. His motivations weren’t _entirely_ selfish. He would never pursue this possibility if he didn’t think it would also be good for Bruce, who only interacted, it seemed, with the same handful of people (outside of his vapid billionaire playboy façade) and could probably use another friend.

So Clark made a decision. He would try to convince Bruce to spend time with him outside of work.

In retrospect, he probably should have planned his approach more thoroughly. Because the first time Clark asked Bruce to spend time with him – in the form of an invitation to dinner – he hadn’t really given it much thought at all. He approached Bruce after a League meeting, once all the other members had left the room, leaving just the two of them.

“Any plans tonight?” he asked, trying to sound casual. For all his strength and genius, Bruce could easily be scared off in social situations. Bruce looked up at him, and even though Clark couldn’t see beneath the lead-lined mask, he knew exactly what facial expression Bruce was making. It was one he was intimately familiar with: scowling, one eyebrow raised, with a look in his brilliant blue eyes that threatened, “You’d better not be wasting my goddamn time, Boy Scout.”

“Patrolling,” Bruce answered shortly. Of course. Clark felt ridiculous for even asking. The only time Bruce did anything but patrol the streets of Gotham all night was when the Wayne household was attending or hosting a social function, and even then Bruce had Oracle constantly monitoring the Internet, security and traffic cameras, and police scanners, and usually sent one or more of the Batkids out halfway through the night to do a sweep of the city.

“Any chance you’d like to join me for dinner somewhere?” He almost said “my treat,” but then realized how unnecessary such an incentive was when addressing Bruce Wayne. Of course it wouldn’t be Clark’s treat. A pair of Bruce’s shoes cost more than Clark made in a week.

“No,” came Bruce’s blunt reply. Clark couldn’t say he was surprised. He shrugged his shoulders easily, not the least bit offended. It was nothing personal. Not when Bruce was involved.

“Alright,” he said, teasing. “Your loss.”

Bruce scoffed and left the room without another word. Clark smiled to himself as he watched the man leave, black cape sweeping dramatically behind him. Oh well. He’d try again some other time. 


	2. Some Other Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually writing this pretty quickly, which is rare for me. Let's hope I can keep it up. As always, let me know if you spot any spelling or grammar mistakes.

“Some other time” turned out to be a week later, after Clark had had time to really plan his approach.

He decided to approach Bruce on his own turf: Gotham. The fact that Clark could actually enter Gotham as Superman without Bruce physically kicking him out of the city was one of the few ways Clark felt their relationship had actually made some sort of progress since they’d learned each other’s secret identities. It wasn’t rare for Clark to fly to Gotham late at night, when he knew Bruce would be out patrolling, to discuss the finer details of a matter of League business. Just a few months ago, Bruce would have, at best, growled something about Gotham being “ _his_ city” and refused to speak to Clark for weeks, and at worst have broken out the Kryptonite Clark knew he kept in his utility belt. These days, though, Bruce just grumbled about Superman interrupting his patrol and proceeded to engage in a mostly civil conversation with Clark.

After sweeping the city with his super senses and determining it a relatively quiet night in Gotham, Clark located Bruce perched on a rooftop. He was crouching in a very Batman-like pose, one leg propped up on a ledge, cape fluttering behind him in the slight breeze, cold eyes surveying the city below with a scowl (Hal called it “Resting Batman Face”). He made no move to acknowledge Clark’s presence, though Clark knew he’d heard him approach.

“Quiet night?” Clark asked, hopping gracefully onto the ledge of the roof and sitting down beside Batman. Still Bruce didn’t move, didn’t turn his head, but Clark’s super hearing picked up a barely audible grunt of affirmation.

Silence stretched between them for the space of several minutes. It wasn’t that Clark was waiting for any sort of response from Bruce – he knew better than to expect that – but he found himself genuinely enjoying Bruce’s silent company. It was pleasant being around Bruce when he wasn’t being actively hostile toward him, even if he wasn’t exactly being actively friendly either. Besides, he knew Bruce well enough to know the man had an appreciation for silence and a hatred of unnecessary small talk, so Clark tried to avoid the latter in conversations with the man.

“Since you don’t seem to be doing anything tonight,” he finally said, cringing inwardly at how loud his voice sounded in the otherwise quiet night, “Maybe you’d like to get dinner somewhere?”

Bruce’s eyes briefly flashed over to meet Clark’s, and Clark thought he almost glimpsed a trace of humor around the corners of his mouth. “A bit late for dinner, isn’t it?”

Clark grinned cheekily. “Midnight snack?” he amended, tilting his head in invitation.

“I’ll pass.” Bruce paused briefly, and if Clark didn’t know him as well as he did, he might have thought the conversation over. But the set of Bruce’s jaw told him Bruce still had something more to say, so he waited patiently. “I have to do another sweep of the city.”

With a dramatic flourish of his cloak, Bruce dove off the rooftop. Clark stared for a moment at the space he had previously occupied, smiling despite Bruce’s rejection. Because Bruce hadn’t simply struck him down this time.

He’d given an excuse.

And to anyone else, that would seem like a minor consolation, but to Clark, it represented a significant step forward. Bruce wasn’t the type for politeness or making excuses for his behavior. So if he _was_ making excuses, it meant a part of him – however small – actually felt guilty turning Clark down. Which perhaps meant a part of him _wanted_ to spend time with Clark.

And wasn’t that a novel idea.

If it weren’t for his super hearing, Clark wouldn’t have picked up the quiet shuffling of someone landing gracefully on the roof several feet behind him. He turned, hoping he wouldn’t have to end his night by fighting one of Batman’s rogues. He already felt like he was intruding by showing up in full Superman costume in Batman’s city; taking on one of Batman’s nemeses seemed like the sort of behavior Bruce would object to.

Thankfully, the black-masked figure behind him turned out to be Cassandra, undoubtedly in the middle of her own patrol of Gotham.

“What are… you doing here?” she asked, the spitting image of Bruce, not in looks, but in demeanor.

“League business,” Clark lied, because it was easier to do so than to explain his true motivations. Unfortunately, Cassandra didn’t buy it, judging by the way her mouth twitched into a smirk.

“Really?” She put her hands on her hips, challenging him. “Sounded to me like… you were asking… Batman out.” Before Clark could correct her, she continued. “He’s pretty… stubborn, though. Not going to… say yes… the first time you ask.”

“Or the second,” Clark agreed.

“Or the third.” Clark huffed a laugh. “You have to be…” Cassandra paused to think of the right word. “Persistent.”

That was Clark’s thought as well. But… “You don’t think it’ll start to… annoy him?” he asked. It hadn’t seemed to so far. Contrary to what many believed, Bruce was actually quite difficult to genuinely annoy. He had a pretty high tolerance for bullshit. Five children and a gallery of frankly ridiculous rogues would do that to a man.

“Nah,” Cass said with an easy shrug. “I think… he wants to… go out with you. He’s just too…” Again she paused to find the right word. “Proud. But he’s got… a soft spot for you… I think,” she said. “You’re… a likable guy.”

“Thank you,” Clark said. Cassandra had that same indefinable quality Bruce had in that a compliment from her somehow meant more than it would from anyone else.

At once, Cassandra’s smirk vanished, and she pointed an accusatory finger at Clark. “If you… break his heart,” she said, “I’ll kick… your Kryptonian ass.” Clark believed her.

He was about to explain that he didn’t actually have any plans to enter a romantic relationship with Bruce when Cassandra ran past him and vaulted off the roof, swan-diving toward the streets below. Clark shook his head at the Bats’ penchant for abrupt, dramatic exits. They should have been annoying, but they were endearing, in a way.

He could probably say that about the majority of Bruce’s behavior. Which made Clark sound like he was head-over-heels or something. He spared a moment to hope that wasn’t the case. Falling head-over-heels for the Batman was bound to bring him nothing but trouble.


	3. Persistent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've already got the next chapter written; all I've got to do is edit it, so that'll be up soon. For now, enjoy this one! And as always, let me know if you spot any spelling or grammar mistakes.

Clark made a few more valiant efforts to get Bruce to spend time with him outside of work, and each was just as unsuccessful as the one before. But he nonetheless saw reason to hope, and not just in constantly reminding himself of Cassandra’s assurance that Bruce did, in fact, like him as a person. Because even though they weren’t spending time together as Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent, Batman and Superman had made incremental but indisputable progress in their relationship. They spent many of their evenings standing and talking together on the rooftops of Gotham, to the point where Clark worried his work at the _Daily Planet_ would begin to suffer due to his lack of sleep.

For a long time, their conversations remained strictly professional: League business only. But after a few months, coded references to their civilian lives began to sneak their way in. A question about Bruce’s children here, about Clark’s coworkers there. Subtle discussions of events the Waynes had attended and Clark had read about in the _Planet_ , or of articles Clark had written that Bruce found interesting. (It was nice to know Bruce actually read Clark’s writing; Clark wondered if this was a recent development or if Bruce was simply an avid _Planet_ reader. Probably the latter; he did own the paper.) None of their conversations were too personal, and they were both careful to avoid giving away their real identities, even when Clark was certain no one could hear them. But nonetheless, these conversations were enough to reassure Clark that his efforts to establish a friendship with Bruce weren’t entirely in vain.

Meanwhile, Clark continued to (platonically) ask Bruce out whenever he knew things weren’t too busy in Gotham, to the point where it became more of a habit than a conscious effort. Usually this was in the form of an invitation to dinner. Even Batman had to eat, he figured, and he knew nothing about Bruce’s taste in movies or just about anything else they could do together. Which was why this whole “getting to know each other” thing was so important. The more Clark talked to Bruce, the more he realized how little he truly knew about the man.

Despite Clark’s continued efforts, Bruce proved stubborn enough to resist. If it was true, and he did in fact like Clark as a person, as Cassandra believed, he was doing a damn good job of not showing it. Most of Clark’s invitations were rejected with a simple “no” and nothing more; occasionally, he answered even before Clark could get the words out. Clark would approach him in one of the rooms or halls of the Watchtower, open his mouth to speak, and Bruce would brush past him with a harsh “Not in the mood, Superman” or simply “I’m busy.” Sometimes there were other League members around to witness, and they would share a laugh at Bruce’s rudeness and Clark’s determination.

Clark told Lois about his and Bruce’s new routine one afternoon as they shared their lunch break. Lois had just returned from covering a story in Cairo; Clark liked to tease that she got all the best stories, and it was true. He knew why, of course. She was the best writer the _Daily Planet_ had, and he wasn’t too proud to admit it.

“Oh, Clark,” she’d said after Clark had finished telling his tale, shaking her head fondly. “You’re so adorable when you’re smitten.”

He thought about contradicting her, about making it perfectly clear that his intentions with Bruce were purely platonic, but two things stopped him. First, after knowing Lois as long as he had, Clark knew better than to argue with her about something so inconsequential. And second… he wasn’t entirely certain she was wrong.

Because as Clark found himself spending more time with Bruce, he felt his attraction to the man growing. What had once been a mostly physical attraction became more as their friendship (could it be called that yet?) developed. He found himself looking forward to talking with Bruce in the halls of the Watchtower, on the rooftops of Gotham, even once when Clark covered a charity event the Waynes attended and he interviewed Bruce and his finely dressed entourage of Batgirls and Robins. And holy shit, did Bruce look good that night, dressed to the nines, holding a champagne flute, and smirking unaffectedly. Almost as good as Clark had decided he looked silhouetted by the moon atop a Gotham skyscraper, all dark and dangerous, ready to leap into action at any moment, and yes, _perhaps_ Clark was a little bit smitten.

It didn’t affect his interactions with Bruce, though; Clark made sure of that. He didn’t want to scare Bruce off, or creep him out, or in any way cause damage to their slowly building friendship. Besides, Clark was a grown man, damn it. He could act maturely around people he found attractive. He’d been coworkers and friends with Lois for years before they’d started dating, and he’d found her attractive the entire time. His current situation was a breeze compared to that.

“Don’t worry, Clark,” Lois had said sagely. “He’ll come around. You’re an attractive man. In fact, Jimmy was just telling me about how a few of those rich snobs at that charity event you two attended in Gotham couldn’t take their eyes off you.” She frowned in mock concern. “Are you getting sloppy at hiding that perfect physique of yours?”

“There’s only so much nerdy glasses and bad posture can do,” Clark joked.

Lois shrugged. “Maybe Bruce Wayne has a thing for nerds.”

“Bruce Wayne?” Clark paused, processing Lois’s words. She didn’t know Batman’s civilian identity, which meant she was talking about Bruce’s public persona, the billionaire playboy. “Is that who Jimmy said was eyeing me at the Gotham event? Bruce Wayne?” He tried not to sound like a lovestruck teenager who’d just found out his crush actually knew he existed. Judging by Lois’s raised eyebrow, he failed.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’d go for a man like _Bruce Wayne_ ,” Lois said judgmentally. “Sure, he’s attractive, but Clark, he’s also a self-absorbed, pompous _airhead_.”

“I’m just curious,” Clark said defensively. It wasn’t technically a lie. He was curious. If Bruce Wayne “couldn’t take his eyes off him,” as Lois had implied, then he was _very_ curious. Although there was no way of knowing whether Bruce’s interest was sincere or just a part of his playboy act. Not that it mattered. Because even if Bruce _was_ interested, the two of them getting romantically involved would be a terrible idea. Potentially catastrophic, even.

“And I’m just looking out for my best friend,” Lois countered, punctuating her words by tapping one long fingernail on the table between them. “That Bruce Wayne is nothing but bad news, albeit wrapped in a pretty, rich package. But nothing good will ever come of getting involved with him.”


	4. Getting Involved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I've got another chapter waiting, and I'll post that tomorrow probably, and as always, let me know if you spot any spelling or grammar mistakes.

The Justice League meeting Batman had called was particularly long and tedious. Most of the League members sitting around the enormous table at least made an effort to pay attention. Hal, however, was open about his disinterest, leaning back in his chair and all but propping his feet up on the table, and every time Bruce turned away from her, Diana aimed a meaningful look in Clark’s direction, a sardonic twist of her lips that said, “We’re not getting out of this one any time soon.”

When Bruce finally concluded, the room emptied in seconds. No one wanted to risk Bruce suddenly realizing he’d forgotten to mention something and calling the meeting back to order, something that had never happened before (Bruce’s memory was impeccable) but that was a natural fear associated with long meetings on tedious topics.

Clark lingered behind, ostensibly to discuss one of Bruce’s points in finer detail, but actually to undergo his now familiar ritual of asking Bruce to spend the evening with him and inevitably being shot down. Diana gave Clark a very different look over her shoulder as she exited, eyes flickering between him and Bruce, one eyebrow lifted knowingly. Clark smiled after her. “Wish me luck,” he communicated with his eyes. She snorted, shook her head, and turned away with a toss of her hair as if to say, “You’re gonna need it.”

Once Diana had left, the doors to the conference room sliding shut behind her, Clark turned to Bruce. Bruce was looking at the monitor on the wall across from them, but the set of his shoulders told Clark he was expecting him to say something.

“Any plans tonight?” he asked, preparing himself for their tired exchange. A less determined man would have given up weeks ago. But then again, a less determined man would never have lasted as Superman for as long as Clark had. Saving the world tended to attract a certain type of person. The stubborn type.

“No,” Bruce answered shortly, still not looking at Clark.

“Want to join me for dinner, then?”

The pause in their conversation (if it could be called that) as Clark awaited Bruce’s answer lasted a beat longer than usual. Clark was already standing, prepared to leave the room, when Bruce’s voice cut through the silence like a knife.

“Okay.”

Clark shrugged easily. “Alright,” he said, making for the door. “See you later, th—”

He stopped. Turned. Squinted at Bruce.

“Wait… what?”

Bruce finally turned to look at Clark. One of the corners of his mouth twitched up slightly, silently laughing at him. “I said ‘okay,’” he repeated matter-of-factly.

Holy shit.

“Oh.” _Smooth, Clark. Real smooth._ “Well… in that case… where do you want to eat?”

Bruce angled himself to face Clark more fully, arms crossed over his chest, leaning sideways against the table. “I know a place,” he said.

“Then… should I meet you at the Batcave?” Clark had been there a few times, though not as often as he would have liked. But he knew the way, knew how to find the concealed entrance.

Once again, the ghost of humor flitted across Bruce’s face. “You can meet me at my front door,” he said, tone mocking, but not cruel.

Clark had never actually been to Wayne Manor. A few of his colleagues had, sent there by the _Daily Planet_ to cover one of the Waynes’ charity events, and Clark had seen the place from a distance, but to be invited there personally by none other than Bruce Wayne himself… it felt significant, in more ways than one. Clark was sure he was the first member of the Justice League to receive such an invitation. He wondered how many visitors the Waynes got, outside of official functions. Not many, he would wager.

“I’ll be there at seven, then?” he suggested, trying to keep his cool, at least outwardly. He would have plenty of time to freak out later.

“Seven works.”

Clark nodded perhaps a bit too forcefully. “Great. See you then.”

“Looking forward to it.” There was only a trace of sarcasm in Bruce’s voice when he said it. He then shut off the monitors in the room and made his way out the doors, leaving Clark behind to marvel at what had just happened.

Clark finally emerged several minutes later, after giving himself time to mentally pull himself together. Diana ambushed him in the hall outside the room, laughing at his stunned expression.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said. “I hope Batman didn’t traumatize you too badly.” It was a question. She wanted to know what had happened.

Clark shook his head, still unable to believe what had just transpired. “He said yes.”

Diana’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?” Now she was shaking her head as well. “Wow. Never thought I’d see the day when I _over_ estimated Batman’s stubbornness.” She paused thoughtfully. “Or maybe I underestimated your charm?”

“Probably the first one.”

She laughed. “Well, hey,” she clapped Clark on the shoulder, “Good luck out there. Don’t have too much fun.” She winked, then paused thoughtfully. “On second thought, _do_ have too much fun. Gods know Batman needs it.” Another pause. “But use protection.”

“It’s not a date, Diana,” Clark said, because apparently she needed reminding of that fact. Apparently _everyone_ did.

Diana raised a skeptical eyebrow at Clark, but she didn’t contradict him. “Whatever you say, Kal.”


	5. Not a Date (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got, like, 3 or 4 more chapters written and I just need to edit them, so I'll post those soon. I'm also trying to decide how far into Bruce and Clark's relationship I want this story to go. As you can see from the tags, it'll definitely cover their first date, first kiss, and first sexytimes, but I'm not sure how much further than that I'll go. I will, however, probably write a follow-up fic because I'm really enjoying this 'verse and I've got a lot of ideas for it. Anyway, spelling and grammar mistakes! Lemme know if you see 'em.

It wasn’t a date. Really. It wasn’t.

That was what Clark told himself as he got ready for his dinner with Bruce. He regretted not asking Bruce how to dress; knowing Bruce (or rather, knowing the scale of Bruce’s income), they could end up at a five-star fine dining establishment and Clark would be severely underdressed. After a panicked phone call to Lois, he hedged his bets with khakis and a polo. He looked like he was going golfing with shareholders and wondered if this was how Bruce dressed on his days off. When he wasn’t dressed like a giant bat.

“You look great,” Lois assured him over the phone.

“You can’t see me,” Clark reminded her, smiling fondly all the same. “How would you know?”

“You always look great. I’ve told you before: If you can pull off primary colored spandex, you can pull off anything.”

So that was how Clark arrived at the front door of Wayne Manor. Standing up close, it was even larger than he’d anticipated. Clark couldn’t even imagine having the money to afford such a place. He still thought apartments in Metropolis were expensive.

He checked his hair in his phone’s front-facing camera to ensure the short flight there hadn’t messed it up. Satisfied, he reached out and rang the doorbell. It echoed hauntingly from inside the mansion. Less than a minute later – impressive, considering the size of the place – the doors swung open, revealing Alfred, whom Clark had had the pleasure of meeting on only one other occasion.

Clark stepped across the threshold, and all at once found himself standing inside a veritable palace, all grand spaces and ornate decoration, antique furnishings and enormous paintings. It was dark, befitting of Batman, lit by a chandelier some two stories above Clark’s head. Clark couldn’t imagine anyone actually living here; it was more museum than home.

“Welcome, Master Clark.” The formality sounded awkward connected to Clark’s name; he would have asked Alfred to forego it if he wasn’t worried it would come across as disrespectful. He didn’t know how to handle himself in this situation, didn’t know the rules of high society. His only interaction with people as rich as Bruce was interviewing them for the _Daily Planet_. “Master Bruce will be down momentarily; would you like me to get you anything? Something to drink, perhaps?”

“Thank you, Alfred; I’m fine.”

“Clark?” The voice echoed from halfway up a grand staircase to Clark’s right. He recognized it immediately: Dick Grayson. Nightwing. A grin lit up Clark’s face.

“Dick! Great to see you.” He was somewhat surprised, to be honest; he hadn’t expected to see any of the Batkids tonight. He’d been so focused on preparing himself to see Bruce.

Apparently the feeling was mutual. “What are you doing here?” Dick asked, vaulting over the handrail to land gracefully on the first floor.

“Bruce and I are going to dinner.”

Dick looked just as shocked as Clark still felt about the whole thing. “God, finally!” He shook his head. “The past few months have been unbearable. Really. Bruce will _not_ shut up about you. He still acts like he hates you, but we all know the truth.”

Clark was surprised to hear this from Dick. Bruce had been talking about him? He’d always assumed Bruce had, well, better things to talk about. With the Justice League, protecting Gotham, raising children, and keeping up his public image, the man was even busier than Clark.

Dick put a firm hand on Clark’s shoulder. “I’m just glad he’s finally dating someone I can approve of,” he said.

Why did everyone think this was a date?

“Dick, aren’t you supposed to be training with Damian?”

Bruce’s rich baritone cut off their conversation before Clark could correct Dick’s misconception. He was dressed somewhat casually – as casually as anyone could expect from Bruce Wayne, Clark imagined – which was reassuring. Clark wouldn’t have to pretend he knew what he was doing at a restaurant that only served unpronounceable French dishes. He wondered whether Bruce spoke French. That was a rich person thing, right?

“Just making sure our guest feels welcome,” Dick said, already leaving the room. “See ya later, Clark.” He winked suggestively. Clark sighed. He was going to disappoint a lot of people when they found out he and Bruce were not, in fact, dating.

“Hey, Bruce,” Clark said with a smile. Bruce nodded, but remained straight-faced. Clark honestly didn’t think he’d ever seen him fully, genuinely smile. He wondered if it looked anything like his fake, vapid playboy smile, and imagined it probably didn’t. Everything about Bruce’s public persona was an elaborate act, and pretty much the exact opposite of who he really was, so that likely was as well.

Bruce looked Clark up and down. “You look nice,” he said. Surprised, Clark made a mental note to thank Lois at work in the morning. Profusely.

“Thanks. You do too.” He did. Clark almost never saw Bruce without the cowl concealing his face. His features were somehow even more handsome than Clark remembered: sharp cheekbones, bright eyes, perfect skin, even more perfect hair. His pristine white collared shirt was rolled up at his forearms. A long scar ran up his left arm, and a smaller, paler one was barely visible on his right hand. Clark was momentarily taken aback. For some self-absorbed reason, he’d never stopped to consider the kind of physical toll superhero work could take on someone who wasn’t nigh invulnerable.

“Should we go, then?” Bruce asked, bringing Clark back into the moment.

“Yes,” he said. “Let’s go.”


	6. Not a Date (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part 2 of 3! Sorry if it seems like it ends a bit abruptly; it was getting really long and I'm kind of obsessive about my chapters all being close to the same length. As always, let me know if you spot any spelling or grammar mistakes.

Somehow, Bruce’s garage was even more impressive than the manor itself. Clark hadn’t owned a car since moving to Metropolis. The public transportation was sufficient to get him around the city, not to mention he could fly himself anywhere he pleased. In Smallville, his family owned a single rusty pickup truck that was older than he was and broke down on a semi-regular basis.

Bruce, meanwhile, owned, it seemed, five cars, and this was discounting all the high-tech vehicles Clark knew were parked below ground in the Batcave. Every one of them likely cost more than Clark made in a year, and all came in varying shades of black and silver. One, in the far corner, appeared to be an antique, and a meticulously well-preserved one at that, older than the Kent family pickup truck but in far better condition. Clark wondered if Bruce ever actually drove it, or if it was just for show.

Bruce led Clark to a shiny black Aston Martin. He opened the passenger side door for Clark, more gentlemanly than Clark had expected, though neither of them said anything about it.

They spoke of Justice League business on the short drive to wherever Bruce was taking them. It wasn’t what Clark had come to do – he wanted to actually learn things about Bruce, about his life, his personality, his interests – but it was familiar, it was comfortable, so it was what they fell into. And there was always plenty to talk about. With all the members in the Justice League, with all the villains they fought, the international and even interplanetary conflicts they had to diffuse, they could talk League business all night. But Clark resolved to change the topic to a slightly more personal one when they reached their destination.

They arrived at a small pizza parlor a few blocks from the harbor. It was busy, being prime dinner hour, and the owner recognized Bruce the moment they walked in the door. This wasn’t surprising. What was surprising, was the manner in which the owner seemed to recognize Bruce. There was nothing star-struck about it, no desperation to please Bruce because he knew of the man’s wealth and reputation. It was more like the way one would recognize a friend one hadn’t seen in ages, but still remembered fondly.

“Bruce Wayne!” the man shouted in a heavy Italian accent. A few heads turned amongst the restaurant’s patrons, and Bruce cringed. Now that was the sort of recognition Clark would wager Bruce _didn’t_ want. “It’s been too long! How is Jason? Do you want your usual table?”

“Yes, thank you,” Bruce said, ignoring the mention of Jason. The owner led them to a back room, away from the crowded main area, squeezed into a corner a few feet from the kitchen doors. It was poorly lit and claustrophobic, but it was private.

The owner handed them a pair of greasy, laminated menus. They ordered drinks, a soda for Clark and “just water” for Bruce. Clark felt a bit like a beer, but he didn’t want to order alcohol if Bruce wasn’t.

“This was Jason’s favorite place to eat,” Bruce explained, without Clark even needing to ask. He didn’t meet Clark’s eyes when he said it. There were still some fresh wounds when it came to Jason, Clark knew. “When he was… when he was a kid. I haven’t been here in years, but I knew we’d be able to get some privacy. At least, I hoped. I don’t like to be in the public eye any more than I have to.”

They paused their conversation for a moment while a waiter brought their drinks and took their orders. They decided to share a pizza – “According to Jason, the pizza here is the best in Gotham.” “What do you think?” “I think it’s alright.” – and breadsticks. The pause in their conversation stretched through a few awkward minutes after the waiter disappeared into the kitchen before Clark cleared his throat and spoke. “So, uh, how are the kids?”

This was apparently the perfect question; with very little coaxing, Bruce launched into a lengthy description of each of his adopted children’s most recent achievements. Clark fought a grin the entire time. He’d never seen Bruce in full-on Proud Dad Mode, and it was without a doubt the cutest thing he’d ever witnessed (an observation he would take with him to his grave, because he was pretty sure Bruce would break out the Kryptonite if Clark ever described him as “cute” to his face).

The conversation wasn’t the only enjoyable thing about the evening. The pizza, too, was among the best Clark had ever had (“You call _this_ ‘alright’? Bruce, this is _delicious_.” “Well, sure, compared to that shit they call pizza in Metropolis.” “It’s definitely better than the pizza in Smallville, I’ll admit that.”). He understood why it had been Jason’s favorite. And by the time he and Bruce finished eating, Bruce was still gushing about Cassandra. However, while they waited for the waiter to return with Bruce’s credit card after he paid the bill (without any argument from Clark), Bruce cut himself off abruptly.

“I just realized I’ve been talking about my kids this entire time,” he said, and Clark had never heard Bruce sound apologetic before, but he was pretty sure this was what it sounded like. Not that he had any reason to be. This was exactly what Clark had come for: to learn about Bruce’s personal life. And his kids were, apparently, a huge part of that.

“That’s okay,” Clark said. “Your kids are great. I love hearing about them.”

“But it’s still rude of me to dominate the conversation.” Bruce met his gaze, a rare occurrence. Eye contact wasn’t one of Bruce’s strong suits. “Especially on a first date.”

Clark choked on his soda.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify, at this point in the timeline, Jason has already "died" and come back, but he and Bruce aren't on very good terms and Bruce still blames himself for a lot of things. That's where the bad feelings come from here, re: Jason.


	7. Not a Date (Part 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion of Bruce and Clark's not-a-date date! I actually finished writing this story last night, so I'll just edit the rest of the chapters (as you can see, there will be 11) and upload them hopefully daily. As always, let me know if you spot any spelling or grammar mistakes.

Bruce raised a perfect eyebrow at Clark’s reaction.

“This… this isn’t…” Clark shook his head. “This isn’t a date.”

“What are you talking about?” An edge of hostility crept into Bruce’s voice. “You’ve been asking me out for months. Of course this is a date.”

The waiter returned Bruce’s card. Bruce tipped him generously, then rose abruptly to his feet and made his way out of the restaurant with all his usual efficiency, not looking back to check whether Clark had followed him. He had.

He got into Bruce’s car, mind racing to keep up with the unexpected turn of events. “I’ve been asking you to spend time with me, sure, but I didn’t mean…” He paused, collected his thoughts. “I just meant… as friends. I just want to be friends.”

Bruce’s hands held the steering wheel in a white-knuckled death grip as he pulled out of their parking spot and onto the road. “But you _are_ bisexual.” Superman had come out publicly in an exclusive interview to _Daily Planet_ reporter Clark Kent over a year ago. Not long before Bruce Wayne had also come out, actually, when his company had sponsored the Gotham Pride parade, though this had been before Clark had known Bruce Wayne was Batman.

“Of course.”

“So you just… aren’t attracted to me.” Bruce’s tone was somewhat strained, and Clark wondered if Bruce was offended. After all, Bruce thought this was a date. He thought Clark had been asking him out. And he’d said yes. He’d said yes to a date with Clark.

Jimmy Olsen was right. Bruce Wayne found him attractive.

Today was just full of surprises.

Clark realized, belatedly, that he hadn’t answered Bruce’s question. Was he attracted to Bruce? Yes. Could he lie to Bruce? Yes. But could he lie to Batman?

No. Not a chance.

“Well…” he began, hesitant to actually admit it. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“So you _are_ attracted to me.” The edge had somewhat gone from Bruce’s voice, which only confirmed Clark’s suspicions. Bruce wasn’t just attracted to him, he (and Clark realized with a cringe what a teenager he sounded like even thinking this) _liked_ him.

Clark sighed, defeated. “Yes. Yes, I’m attracted to you.”

Bruce turned briefly to glare at Clark before returning his attention to the road. “Then what’s the problem?”

“Are you kidding?” Clark asked. “We’re Batman and Superman, Bruce. Any relationship between the two of us would be _incredibly_ complicated.”

“What, more complicated than your past relationships with women who didn’t know you were Superman? More complicated than my relationship with Selina? Everything in our lives is complicated, Clark. Everything.”

He had a point. Clark cursed his apparent tendency to only go out with people who were always right.

“Besides, we’re not _in_ a relationship, Clark,” Bruce continued, not waiting for Clark to answer. They were already pulling into the long driveway that led to Wayne Manor. “We’re on a first date. Although I did enjoy myself, and would very much like to do this again some time. After I apologize for talking about my children all evening. That… wasn’t very romantic of me.”

“You don’t have to apologize for that. I like knowing what’s going on with them.” Then, without fully considering the ramifications of the decision he was making – because he knew Bruce had already done that ad nauseam, and Clark could usually trust Bruce’s judgment – Clark continued. “I enjoyed myself too. As first dates go, it was a pretty good one.”

After a few moments of tense silence, during which both of them absorbed the fact that the other had acknowledged their evening as a date, they backed into Bruce’s garage and both got out of the car. The garage door was still open behind them. Clark looked out, glimpsing a sliver of the night sky beyond a horizon of Gotham skyscrapers. He walked around to the front of the car, and Bruce followed him.

“Thanks for dinner,” he said, feeling like it was about time to wrap things up, although he hated to end on such an awkward note.

“It was my pleasure,” Bruce said. The nicety sounded less forced than usual, a good sign. And he was looking at Clark with an odd expression on his face. His mouth was turned down slightly in a thoughtful frown, eyes staring intensely, not at Clark’s eyes but at his… at his lips.

Oh.

Well, there wasn’t really a _non_ -awkward way to do this, was there? He took a tentative step toward Bruce, breaching his personal space. His confidence rose when Bruce didn’t back away. In fact, his eyes lifted to meet Clark’s, waiting for him to finish making his move. Clark lifted a hand to Bruce’s sharp jawline. There was barely an inch of space between them.

“Do you mind if I—?” He let the question hang in the air, refusing to do this before he received some form of confirmation, because Clark Kent was a gentleman, goddamnit.

Bruce’s mouth slid into a smirk. “I hope you don’t intend to keep me waiting here all night.”

With a roll of his eyes, Clark closed the space between them and their mouths collided. His free hand found Bruce’s waist and pressed their bodies together; in turn, Bruce reached around him, one of his hands burying itself in Clark’s hair and the other resting on the small of his back.

Clark had meant for it to be a brief, chaste kiss, but he supposed one out of two wasn’t horrible. It stretched on for several long minutes, neither of them moving much, just savoring the feeling of each other’s mouths. Bruce’s lips were surprisingly soft, contrasting with the sharp angles of his face. His breath was warm on Clark’s cheeks. He smelled like expensive cologne and tasted like the pizza they’d just eaten. It was sort of a weird combination, but somehow that didn’t really matter.

When they finally broke away, Bruce was actually, genuinely smiling. It was a small smile, but Clark decided to count it as a victory. He seemed to be scoring a lot of those today.

“I’ll text you,” Bruce said.

“Good. I’ll see you soon.”

Clark’s flight back to Metropolis was one of the happiest he’d had in a while.


	8. See You Soon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, let me know if you spot any spelling or grammar mistakes.

Nothing changed between them. Not on the outside, anyway. Not in front of everyone else. And Diana, friend that she was, didn’t tell any of the other Justice League members about Bruce and Clark’s date. So everything remained business as usual.

This had been a conscious decision. Bruce’s choice, mostly, though it was one Clark could support. He had no desire to advertise his dating life to the rest of the League, especially after only one date. Maybe if they actually decided to enter an official relationship one day, they’d tell the League. _Maybe_. Because it could potentially impact their leadership. But until then, they’d keep their League interactions strictly professional.

They planned their second date over the phone. “I hate phone calls,” Bruce had admitted.

“Does that mean I should feel honored?” Clark liked this. The teasing. Flirting, really. He wondered if that was what it had always been. Clark’s good-natured teasing, followed up by one of Bruce’s sarcastic remarks… that’s how things were between them, even before they’d known each other’s secret identities. Had they been flirting, even then? Ever since the beginning? Or had there been some pivotal moment when things had shifted, when the teasing had taken on a new meaning, become something more? If there was, Clark couldn’t, for the life of him, pinpoint it.

“It means I decided a phone call was easier than shouting ‘Superman’ over and over until you picked me up with your super hearing.”

“I would’ve heard you. I always pick up on your voice. You, Lois, my parents.”

“Now I feel honored.”

Clark laughed. “But a phone call was probably easier.” He paused. “So, uh, you wanted something?” He knew what this was most likely about – a second date – but he wanted to be sure. Not that Bruce had ever called him for any other reason. He’d had Clark’s number for months, and this was the first time he’d reached out to him.

“I’m free on Thursday,” Bruce said, cutting straight to the chase. “We can go somewhere nicer this time.”

Clark hesitated. “How much nicer?” He smirked. “Do I have to rent a tux?”

He thought he heard Bruce chuckle. “Wear what you wore to that charity event in Gotham three weeks ago,” Bruce suggested. “You looked good.”

So on Thursday, Clark dressed up in the suit he’d worn to the Gotham charity event he’d covered, and he arrived at Wayne Manor at precisely seven o’clock. Bruce was dressed similarly, though he of course managed to pull it off far better than Clark could ever hope to.

The restaurant Bruce took him to was exactly the type of place Clark had feared ending up at on their first date: Pristine white tablecloths, expensive silverware, vintage wine, society darlings at every table, and not a single dish on the menu that Clark could pronounce, let alone that he recognized. But somehow, the fact that he was with Bruce made every part of that alright. And not just because, when Clark confessed how lost he was, Bruce offered to order for him.

And also not just because they had started their night out with a long and passionate kiss in Bruce’s Lamborghini that was beginning to turn into a heated make out session when Bruce cut it off. (“We’re going to miss our reservation.” “I’m okay with that.” “Clark.” “Fine. Let’s go.”)

Fortunately, the make out had a sequel; after finishing one of the richest chocolate desserts he’d had in his life and wrapping up a conversation about Clark’s latest front page article in the _Daily Planet_ , Clark and Bruce found themselves once again in Bruce’s car, parked in Bruce’s garage and tonguing like a couple of horny teenagers. Clark was practically planking over the gear shift; he pulled away from Bruce’s mouth to speak. “It’s kind of cramped in here.”

“Unfortunately my house is full of my children, and I’d really rather they not walk in on this,” Bruce answered dryly. “So we don’t have a lot of options.”

Clark checked his watch. It was nearly half past nine. “They’re not out on patrol by now?” He knew Bruce liked to start his patrol as soon as it got dark, and he’d assumed his children would share the same schedule.

Bruce considered this for a moment. “You’re right.”

So they relocated to a black leather couch in front of an enormous flat screen television, Clark straddling Bruce’s lap as they made out in a far more comfortable fashion. Bruce leaned his head back while Clark ravished his neck, loosening his tie and undoing the top two buttons of his shirt. Bruce’s hands were on his ass, and when Clark ground their hips together, he could feel Bruce’s hardness beneath him.

The part of Clark that had been admiring Bruce from afar for months (if not years) wanted to suggest they relocate their activities to the bedroom, but the more rational part of him that knew how resistant Bruce was to forming attachments with other people didn’t want to be presumptuous. Sure, Bruce Wayne was a playboy with a reputation for having sex with anyone who’d agree to it, but those were casual, one-night stands with models he barely knew. This would be different. At least, Clark hoped it would be.

One of Bruce’s hands left Clark’s ass to grab the back of his head and force their mouths back together. Bruce hummed into Clark’s open mouth, his other hand rising to Clark’s back to force their bodies closer together, and maybe Clark wasn’t being so presumptuous…

“Don’t you have work tomorrow?” Bruce’s mouth moved against Clark’s when he spoke, and it took Clark’s lust-addled brain a minute to register his words.

“Uh, what day is it again?”

Bruce chuckled, a low rumble that buzzed across Clark’s lips where they were still touching Bruce’s. “Thursday.”

“Then yes.”

Bruce pushed him away, gently but with obvious intent. They were done here. Clark stood, and Bruce got to his feet after him, straightening his clothes, which had gotten quite rumpled in their… activities. “You should get home. And I need to get out on patrol.”

“Of course.” Clark nodded, hesitated, then leaned in to plant one last, quick kiss on Bruce’s lips. He smiled. “I’ll see you soon.”


	9. Obvious Intent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, let me know if you spot any spelling or grammar mistakes.

For their third date, Bruce invited Clark to join the family for dinner. And for the first time, when Clark arrived at the Manor, it was Bruce who answered the door, not Alfred.

Rather than step aside to let Clark in, Bruce slipped out the door and shut it behind him, joining Clark on the front step. Clark raised his eyebrows but didn’t question him. “Hi,” he said instead, unable to help a smile from creeping onto his face.

“Hello,” Bruce answered. Then, abruptly, “I’ve told the kids to be on their best behavior, but I can’t promise they actually will be. Especially Jason. I didn’t expect him to show up after I invited him, but apparently the fact that we’re dating was too amusing for him not to see for himself.”

“It’s okay, Bruce,” Clark said comfortingly. He could tell Bruce was somewhat nervous (which was still a new experience for Clark). This was the first time it wouldn’t just be the two of them. “I promise I can handle whatever they throw at me.”

Bruce nodded slightly, as if reassuring himself. “Of course.” He paused, looking at Clark with that familiar strangeness in his eyes before leaning in and kissing him firmly on the mouth. Clark melted into the gesture immediately, wrapping one arm around Bruce’s upper back, one hand between his shoulder blades and one around his waist. He tilted his head to get a better angle, prompted by Bruce’s hand at the back of his neck, and slid his tongue teasingly past Bruce’s lips before drawing it back. Bruce followed and soon their tongues were matching each other’s movements, winding around one another, and the kiss was growing more heated.

Clark’s hand lowered, found Bruce’s ass. It wasn’t a conscious decision, it had just felt natural, but Bruce didn’t seem to mind, so Clark kept it there. It was a really great ass.

Just as things were starting to get interesting, Bruce withdrew. Without a word, he opened the door behind them and Clark followed him inside. Clark couldn’t help but wonder if the kiss was a promise of something more later that night. God, he hoped so.

Dick, Tim, Cassandra, and Damian were all in attendance that evening, as well as an unfamiliar young man with a white streak in his jet black hair and skin just half a shade darker than Damian’s, wearing a leather jacket and a Wonder Woman tee. He gave a sharp half-nod when he saw Clark. Tim greeted him with a grin, Cassandra with what probably passed for a smile in the Wayne household, and Dick with an enthusiastic, “Hey, Clark!” Damian ignored him.

Once they’d all gathered in the ornately furnished dining room, they took their seats. Dick moved automatically for the seat just to the right of the head of the table before Bruce stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Sit there,” he said, indicating the head. Dick shot him a look that seemed to ask, “Are you sure?” before obeying. Bruce indicated for Clark to take the seat Dick had first approached, and Bruce sat to his left.

The conversation began with Bat business: discussion of the various rogues currently terrorizing Gotham and strategies to take them down. Clark tuned out most of it – it had nothing to do with him – and focused his attention on the delicious meal before him. He eyed Bruce covertly while sipping wine out of a crystal glass. Bruce met his gaze briefly, expression giving away nothing. Clark reached under the table and placed a hand on Bruce’s thigh. Bruce didn’t react except to knock his knee lightly against Clark in a gesture so subtle it could easily have been unintentional. Clark’s hand remained where it was.

When the Bats’ discussion descended into a heated argument between Jason and pretty much everyone else, Dick interrupted loudly to change the topic.

“We do have a guest,” he reminded everyone over his wine glass, nodding toward Clark. Clark smiled past a mouthful of food. “Clark, how’s work at the _Daily Planet_?”

Clark briefly told Dick about the more interesting stories his coworkers (mostly Lois) had recently written. However, at the prompting of Jason and Damian, the conversation quickly turned to his adventures as Superman.

They kept talking long after they all finished eating. It was pleasant, and even though Clark was constantly being interrupted, he found he didn’t mind. He was used to it, anyway; Justice League meetings could be extremely chaotic, as could the _Daily Planet_ offices right before a major deadline.

Just as Clark was wrapping up one of his more interesting stories and trying to think of another, Bruce stood and addressed the kids. “That’s enough for tonight,” he said.

“Why?” Jason challenged, grinning sinfully. “You have something planned after this?” He winked at Clark.

Bruce was not amused by the innuendo. In fact, he ignored it entirely. “You all have patrolling to do. Damian, you’ll be with Dick tonight.”

“I can handle myself, Father,” Damian said petulantly.

“You’ll still be with Dick.”

“Why?” Damian crossed his arms over his chest. “What will _you_ be doing?”

“He and Clark—”

“ _Jason_.”

After a little more teasing from Jason, the kids finally filed out of the room, leaving Bruce and Clark alone.

Clark wasn’t sure how to approach the situation. Despite Jason’s implications, he didn’t actually know for certain what Bruce wanted him to do now. So he decided to play it safe.

“Tonight was great,” he said. “One of the best meals I’ve had in a while.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” Bruce replied.

Clark met Bruce’s eyes, searching for some kind of answer, a clue as to how he should proceed, but Bruce was as closed off as usual. “I guess I’ll just, uh, head out, then.” He motioned in the general direction of the front door.

A hint of something dark and promising flashed across Bruce’s features, sending sparks down Clark’s spine. “You could stay,” he offered.

And here it was. The decision was entirely up to Clark. Luckily, Clark knew exactly what he wanted.


	10. Something More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't edit this chapter as thoroughly as previous ones so let me know if you spot any spelling or grammar mistakes. One more chapter left! I'll probably write a follow-up fic to this that continues the story of their relationship, but I'm going to take a break before writing it.

As soon as they reached the master bedroom, Bruce slammed the door shut behind them and backed Clark up against it, forearms propping him up on either side of Clark’s head. He captured his mouth in a searing kiss, tongue sliding past Clark’s lips. Clark choked back a moan at the sudden sensation, hands clutching Bruce’s broad shoulders, keeping their bodies pressed together. His cock responded almost immediately, spurred on as Bruce rolled his hips filthily. The man clearly knew what he was doing. Not at all surprising, given his reputation.

“Fuck,” Clark whispered. Bruce smirked against his mouth.

Their kiss lasted for several more glorious minutes before Bruce drew back to trail open-mouthed kisses along Clark’s sharp jawline and down his neck, tongue darting out occasionally, teeth scraping once against his skin. Bruce rolled his hips again, the now half-hard length of his cock rubbing against Clark’s thigh, making Clark gasp.

“I need—” he began, because he was sure he needed something, but he didn’t know exactly what it was. He needed Bruce, Bruce’s mouth, Bruce’s body.

“You need to take your shirt off and lay down on my bed,” Bruce prompted. The low rumble of his voice was just about the hottest thing Clark had ever heard. He made quick work of his button-down, discarding it thoughtlessly on the floor by the door and clambering over to Bruce’s enormous four-poster bed. Bruce followed him, a hand pushing him down onto his back. He knelt over Clark, straddling him, cock visibly tenting his pants as he surveyed the shirtless man beneath him.

Finally, after Clark was about to complain about how desperately he needed Bruce to _touch_ him, goddamnit, Bruce leaned forward until he was on all fours, hovering just inches above Clark. For a moment, it seemed like he was going to kiss him again, but at the last second his head ducked down to Clark’s collarbone, biting and sucking a mark just beneath it. Clark, meanwhile, reached around Bruce to hold onto him, hands splayed over his frustratingly still-clothed back.

Bruce’s mouth was thorough in its exploration of Clark’s body, slowly making its way over Clark’s shoulders and down his chest. Bruce teased first one nipple and then the other, teeth grazing against the hardened buds and pulling another gasp from Clark. Taking note of how much Clark seemed to like it, Bruce focused a great deal of attention on Clark’s nipples, licking them with the flat of his tongue, sucking them into his mouth, twisting them with his fingers, until Clark was arching off the bed and rasping out a long, desperate moan. His hips jerked up, seeking friction, seeking relief, to no avail. Bruce carefully dodged his efforts, apparently intent on teasing Clark until he exploded from sexual frustration. A worthwhile way to die, he decided.

Having given Clark’s nipples their due, Bruce moved down to Clark’s stomach, tracing the hard lines of his abs with his tongue. The way his tongue and mouth moved brought to mind a number of other places Clark wanted that mouth, that tongue, and his cock jerked at the thought, straining painfully against his zipper.

“Bruce, _please_ …” Clark was not above begging in the bedroom.

Bruce chuckled against his skin and ground his hips down, _hard_. Clark moaned unrestrainedly. But the friction was gone as soon as it came when Bruce pulled back, kneeling over Clark. He quickly removed his own shirt, revealing his pale, sculpted torso. Countless scars crisscrossed Bruce’s body; Clark reached up, unable to resist, and ran his hands up the newly bare skin. Bruce smirked down at him, seemingly pleased with how desperate Clark looked, how greedily his eyes took in Bruce’s tough, battle-worn body. One of Bruce’s hands found the waistband of Clark’s pants, palmed his cock through too many layers of fabric; Clark grunted, needing more. Bruce took pity on him and undid his button and zipper with practiced movements. The pressure on Clark’s cock subsided, the hard line of it visible through the thin layer of his underwear. A wet smear of pre-come stained the fabric.

Clark shimmied out of his pants and Bruce tossed them aside before backing up off the bed and standing to remove his own. His arousal, too, was visible through tight black boxers. Clark’s mouth watered at the sight.

“God, I want your cock,” he heard himself say, and the moment the words escaped his lips, he knew they were true. He’d imagined this playing out a number of ways, and hopefully there would be time for all those ways on other occasions, but tonight, Clark just wanted Bruce to fuck him in the ass, _hard_.

Bruce’s reply was to return to bed, crawling over Clark and then laying down almost completely on top of him, kissing him deeply, hips grinding together with only their underwear to separate them. It was still too much.

“Say that again,” Bruce growled. There was a slight rasp in his voice, a sort of desperation, and oh, it was such a turn-on.

Clark gripped Bruce’s hips in his hands and bucked up into them, shivers running down his spine at the intense friction this provided. “I want you,” he repeated, “Inside me.”

For several long minutes, Bruce ignored Clark’s request, instead simply rutting against him, face buried in Clark’s neck, until Clark began to worry he would come in his underpants. Bruce grunted with each thrust and it was the filthiest thing Clark had ever heard. Clark’s hands were still on him, bruising in their grip. Bruce seemed to enjoy this, something Clark knew he’d want to remember for another time.

Finally, Bruce pulled off him enough to strip off their underwear. Clark’s cock sprung out eagerly, red and throbbing. Bruce’s dripped pre-come onto Clark’s stomach.

Bruce reached into the drawer of a bedside table and came back with a condom and lube. He met Clark’s eyes, suddenly serious. “Are you ready?”

Clark didn’t think he could get any readier. “God, yes.”

Bruce smirked, set the condom aside, and uncapped the lube, squeezing a generous amount onto his forefinger. He hoisted one of Clark’s legs up over his shoulder; the stretch of it burned pleasantly through his muscles. Bruce leaned forward and captured Clark’s lips in a slow, sensuous kiss while his finger circled around Clark’s opening, teasing him. Clark twitched forward eagerly. Answering Clark’s unspoken plea, Bruce’s finger slid into him easily. Clark broke the kiss briefly to gasp-moan Bruce’s name into his mouth.

Bruce worked Clark open expertly, his finger curling and stretching but carefully avoiding his prostate. Clark’s too-hard cock bounced against his stomach, waiting. Small noises tumbled from his lips unbidden; he wanted more. He said so. Repeatedly. In response, Bruce slicked up another finger and drove both into him without warning. The fingers curled and scissored inside him and he was soon ready for a third; without prompting this time, Bruce added it and started to brush lightly against Clark’s prostate with his strokes. Clark’s gasps turned to a stream of quiet curses: “Oh fuck oh please oh Bruce oh God.” Clark pumped his hips into the sensation, fucking himself on Bruce’s fingers until Bruce’s free hand stilled him by placing itself at the side of his hips in a warning. Then Clark waited, waited until he was loose and open and Bruce had finished preparing him.

“Fuck me,” Clark said, halfway between a demand and a request, when Bruce withdrew his fingers. Bruce tilted his head down to kiss Clark thoroughly. He then sat up, carefully stretched the condom over his leaking cock, and lubed himself up with a few slow, languorous strokes. The sight of Bruce lazily stroking his own cock burned itself into Clark’s mind; he knew that was one he would refer to later to get himself off.

Just as Clark was beginning to think he’d die from the lack of Bruce’s cock inside him, he felt the head teasing his entrance. He relaxed his body, groaning in anticipation as Bruce inched into him, purposefully slow. He longed to jerk his hips forward and drive Bruce into him fully, but the firm hand on his hips told him not to.

Once Bruce’s cock was buried in Clark to the hilt, they both took a moment to adjust to and appreciate the sensation. Bruce shuddered, words tumbling from his lips before he could stop them: “ _Fuck_ , you’re so tight.”

Then he started moving. His thrusts were slow and gradual, angled just right to brush torturously against Clark’s prostate but not providing nearly enough friction to satisfy. Clark twitched anxiously, hands holding Bruce by his hips, anchoring himself. His fingers felt the grooves and ridges of overlapping scars on Bruce’s skin.

Initially, simply the feeling of being filled with Bruce’s cock and the sound of Bruce’s huffed breath in his ear as he thrust into him was enough for Clark. But once again, it wasn’t long before Clark knew he needed more.

“Harder,” he growled out, the word pulled from him as Bruce bottomed out inside him. Bruce picked up the pace slightly, slamming into Clark’s body with greater force with every stroke. He improved his angle, driving the head of his cock directly into Clark’s prostate, and Clark cried out as a wave of pleasure wracked his body, causing him to arch up into Bruce.

Spurred on by Clark’s exclamation, Bruce thrust even harder, torturing Clark in an entirely new way, overwhelming him with sensation. Clark felt the familiar buildup of tingling pleasure beneath his stomach, felt himself approaching the edge of his orgasm. “Bruce,” he said, begging for release. His grip on Bruce tightened. Bruce groaned through his teeth.

When Clark felt himself nearing so close to the edge it was almost painful, he ground his hips up into Bruce, driving Bruce’s cock into him. The motion had Clark’s orgasm slamming into him like a ton of bricks; he threw his head back and shouted, white spurts of come painting his and Bruce’s stomachs. He clenched around Bruce’s cock and Bruce responded with a choked sound that was almost Clark’s name and came on the heels of Clark’s orgasm, shuddering as he emptied himself.

For several long moments, they remained where they were, shaking through their aftershocks. Bruce pulled out slowly, breath still coming out heavily. He tied off the used condom and tossed it into a wastebasket by his bedside table, pulled out a few tissues from a box on the table, wiped them both off, and then collapsed next to Clark on the bed.

It was Clark who shattered the silence that hung between them. “Holy shit.”


	11. Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter! Once again, I'll probably write a follow-up fic, but I'm going to take a bit of a break first, so this is the end for now. As always, let me know if you spot any spelling or grammar mistakes!

“Do you… want me to leave?” Clark had asked the night before, after their frankly spectacular sex. He didn’t know what the protocol was with Bruce. So much of dating Bruce meant making shit up as he went along.

“That’s up to you,” Bruce said neutrally. Then, apparently making an incredible effort to be affectionate, he added: “I would… prefer it if you stayed.”

Clark smiled. “Good.”

And that was how he found himself the next morning: sprawled half on top of Bruce, naked limbs tangled together under the covers. He fumbled for his phone, plugged into Bruce’s charger. It was ten in the morning. A Saturday. He didn’t have anywhere to be.

He disentangled himself from Bruce and stood up lazily, waking Bruce up in the process, if the man’s disappointed grunt was anything to go by. A single blue eye squinted up at him, the other buried in a cushy pillow. Clark couldn’t help the laugh that tumbled out of him at the sight of the fearsome Batman, the suave Bruce Wayne, tangled in bedsheets, hair a mess, and surrounded by the haze of sleep.

“What time is it?” Bruce mumbled, voice muffled by the pillow beneath him.

“Ten-fifteen,” Clark said. “We’ve slept plenty. I’m going to use your shower.” He padded off in the direction of what he assumed to be the bathroom, sparing a mischievous glance over his shoulder. “You could join me.”

Bruce made no move to do any such thing, so Clark got into the shower alone. Bruce’s bathroom was as impressive as everything else he owned: huge, with a walk-in shower and a Jacuzzi bath. A line of hair products Clark was thoroughly unfamiliar with cluttered the counter by the sink.

Several minutes later, the door opened and Bruce stepped into the shower after Clark. Clark suppressed a smug smile. At first, they kept their hands off each other, focused on getting themselves clean. That didn’t last long. Clark’s arms snaked around Bruce’s waist, drawing him in for a lazy “good morning” kiss. When he looked down to admire Bruce’s gorgeous physique, he noticed a set of distinctly finger-shaped bruises adorning his hips. He had the decency to feel sheepish.

“Sorry about that,” he said, gesturing. Bruce looked up at him like that was the most unnecessary thing he’d ever said, a look Clark was quite used to.

“If I hadn’t liked it, I would have told you,” he said simply.

“Good.” Clark’s thumbs traced circles on Bruce’s skin as he leaned in for another kiss, then kissed his way down Bruce’s neck, his chest, his stomach, coming to kneel in front of his hardening cock. He lifted his eyebrows in question at Bruce, whose hands were buried in Clark’s hair.

Bruce nodded, giving Clark the confirmation he needed. He hadn’t given a blowjob in years, but he remembered the technique, and it didn’t take long to figure out what Bruce liked. After just a few minutes, Bruce tugged on his hair, warning him. “Clark, I’m—” Clark redoubled his efforts, and Bruce had to hold himself up against the wall behind him as he came down Clark’s throat. “ _Clark_ ,” he moaned, voice hoarse with sleep and arousal.

Clark wiped his lips and grinned. Bruce pulled him to his feet, bringing them together, licking the taste of himself out of Clark’s mouth. He jerked Clark off efficiently; Clark came apart in his arms, head resting on his shoulder, breath quick and ragged.

“Do you want breakfast?” Bruce asked while they dried off and got dressed. Clark’s clothes from the day before were still relatively clean, but Bruce lent him a shirt and a pair of pants anyway. They were close enough in size for Bruce’s clothes to fit Clark. “The kids are probably still asleep, so it’ll just be the two of us.”

Bruce was almost right. Most of the kids were asleep, except Tim, who apparently had Teen Titans business that afternoon. He watched Bruce and Clark enter the kitchen together, eating his way through a pile of syrupy pancakes and eyeing them knowingly. None of them said anything, until: “Does this mean you two are together now? Officially?”

Clark looked at Bruce for confirmation. “I… don’t think it’s _official_.” Bruce shook his head. Tim shrugged, returning his attention to his food.

Clark snuck a look at Bruce out of the corner of his eye. The romantic in him hoped that this… _thing_ between them would be official sooner rather than later. He tested out the idea in his mind, the idea of being Bruce Wayne’s boyfriend, _Batman’s_ boyfriend. It was a nice idea. And just a few weeks ago, it would have seemed impossible, the sort of thing that only happened in his least realistic daydreams.

Then again, a few weeks ago, he hadn’t thought Bruce would even say yes to spending time with him. And look how that had turned out.


End file.
